


aponia

by LordeMidnight



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucket List, Drugs, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hedonism, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sexual Tension, Substance Abuse, lots of gratuitous poetry and music, starts at funeral home minus the dog and walker attack (let’s pretend like that BS never happened)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28953558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordeMidnight/pseuds/LordeMidnight
Summary: aponia (ancient greek: ἀπονία) : the absence of pain, the height of bodily pleasure.Beth's got this strange habit of flirtin' with morbidity—a fitting behavior for a girl who looks like an angel, a girl who's marked by a permanent halo. Everything she does seems to anticipate an inevitable death.Like making this bucket list, for example. Sins to tally before she dies.But who's Daryl to deny Beth her adrenaline addiction? Girl's already struck moonshine and arson from her list, after all.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon & Beth Greene, Daryl Dixon/Beth Greene
Comments: 33
Kudos: 78





	1. my dreams are broken glass

**Author's Note:**

> This work was chiefly inspired by a playlist I made at midnight in a creative manic state. I highly recommend listening while reading or at least before/after you read to enhance the mood. Or just casually at some point, these are great songs regardless. Or don't! Whatever works best for you 🤠
> 
> Kingston - Faye Webster  
> Kill Me Now - The Chapin Sisters  
> Quantum Physics - Ruby Waters  
> Electric Dream - Bien  
> Overgrown - FELIVAND  
> Outlaw - The Staves  
> Euphoria - Dianna Lopez  
> Flowers (feat. Father) - Faye Webster

  
  


_The day that I met you I started dreaming_   
_Now I write them down if I remember in the morning time_   
_I don't know that much about [killing]_   
_But I like the sound it makes when it starts pouring rain_   
_I think that tonight I'll leave my light on_   
_'Cause I get lonely when it's out and I miss you right about now_

_—Kingston, Faye Webster_

* * *

“Whaddya write about in there anyway?”

Beth peers up at him from behind her journal, her eyes just peekin’ out over the edge of the moleskin casing.

He’s lookin’ at her with that…that _look_ of his that’s a strange mix of sleepy and brave and curious. His eyes are squintin’ at her, bags heavy underneath. She traces her eyes over the stubble of his jaw ticked her way, head angled so that he’s almost lookin’ down his nose at her. His high cheekbones flicker against the candlelight, casting the topography of his face into deep shadows that makes Beth feel all shifty and squirmy and _hot_.

She presses her back further into the arm of the couch, curls her toes tighter between the couch cushions. With her legs mounted into an inverted V, Daryl sits perpendicular to her, legs stretched out onto the coffee table, half-drank coke bottle tucked between his thighs.

Beth glances down at her recent entry and blushes, bitin’ her lip and lowerin’ the journal down into her lap, away from his questioning gaze.

“Hm?” he nudges her shin with his elbow, and hot goosebumps erupt all over Beth’s chest.

“Mostly my dreams,” says Beth. “Stuff about Maggie and Shawn and my dad….”

Beth trails off, tracing the letters on the page with a delicate finger. It ain’t quite a lie, ‘cause she ain’t a liar, no siree, her daddy raised her better than that, and Beth really does write about her dreams a lot. Just last night, she'd dreamt about her daddy back at the prison, singing Judith a lullaby while Beth bounced the baby in her arms.

But Maggie on the other hand... Maggie taught her how to bend the truth, and Beth is sure as hell not about to tell Daryl that she’s been _fantasizing_ about him. Writin’ fuckin’ soliloquys about his muscles, yearning entries about that rough timber of his voice, the way she sure it’d feel nice if those hands of his were all over her skin.

Nah, she ain’t lyin’, she’s _bending the truth_ , and it’s for Daryl’s own good ‘cause the man is old and she’s _not_ about to be the one to kill the unkillable with a heart attack.

“Dreams, huh?” he rasps, that late night drawl his layering into the deepness of his voice, the darkness of the night.

“Yeah,” says Beth. “Dreams. But it’s all mostly good stuff. I don’t write about my nightmares. I don’t wanna remember those. I wanna remember the flashes of Shawn makin’ fun of me…of my ma scolding me…”

… _of you grabbin’ me by the waist, kissin’ me until I can’t breathe no more_ …

Beth stutters, tries to regain her train of thought, tries to focus on those hazy images of her ma wavin’ her wooden spoon in the air, threatenin’ to whoop Beth’s ass if she tracked mud through the house one more time—of Shawn flappin’ his hands around, makin’ googly eyes, and forcin’ his voice into higher octaves after Beth informed him that Jimmy had asked her out.

And goddammit, tears are just formin’ in the corners of her eyes now despite the blush that’s still spreading across her chest, “A lotta of my dreams are memories, but they’re… I dunno, they’re fragmented? Like I’m looking at them through broken glass, a shattered mirror.”

“You write poetry now too?” Daryl grunts.

Beth’s breath catches and a stanza floats to her mind, written from long ago back at the farm following the incident at the barn. The one with Sophia. The one that takes up way too much real estate in her mind, with the echoes of her ma's snarls as the corpse tried to dig her hands into Beth's flesh. Beth's practically written an epic about that day at the barn in all its macabre glory, the bleak gore rivaling Beowulf:

_i'll serve my lungs on my ma’s favorite china_

_the ugly pink set she bought in south carolina_

_i'll pour my blood into her fancy sunday crystal_

_drained from my gut, a shot poured by a pistol_

Beth shakes herself— _away with the fairies_ —but the verse still buzzes around her head like an incessant fly.

She somehow manages to recover and keep her voice steady when she says, “Sometimes. Why?”

“‘Cause you fuckin’ talk like it.”

Beth giggles. Daryl always manages to pull those laughs from her when her shadows start to speak, when her memories start to eat at her. Accordingly, the buzzing starts to fade, and she focuses on the tilt of his smile where his tongue darts out momentarily to slide against his lower lip.

“Whaddya mean?” she asks.

“ _My dreams are broken glass_ ,” Daryl teases, wavin’ his hand in the air in half-assed mockery.

Beth drops her jaw, pretending to be insulted, a grin threatening to break the corners of her mouth. Daryl raises his eyebrows—an unspoken challenge.

Beth flips open her journal. “Hm, I actually think I got that line in here somewhere…" She slaps a random page, "Found it! _My dreams are broken glass, and Daryl Dixon’s a pain in my ass._ ”

Daryl scoffs, “That’s rich, comin’ from the queen of sass.”

“Daryl!” Beth pretends to scold him, that grin finally breaking through and spreading across her face, “I think you just wrote the next line.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, and Beth giggles at his annoyed expression. She folds her legs into criss-cross applesauce so that her knees press into the sides of his thigh. She plops her journal in her lap (distantly notes that he doesn't pull away from her touch) and writes:

_my dreams are broken glass_

_daryl dixon’s a pain in my ass_

_so says the queen of sass_

_my dreams, a shattered mirror_

_but i ain’t got no fear_

_‘cause i know i got my man near_

Beth signs her name in a cursive loop at the bottom, and sighs, "Maybe I’ll sing it one day. Like for a real audience. Stand up on stage, tap on the microphone. There’ll be that awful screeching feedback and everyone’ll cringe and I’ll be thinkin’ to myself _God could this_ be _off to a worse start?_ ” Beth pauses, clicks her pen. She can feel Daryl’s gaze heavy on her, and when she glances up between her lashes, she finds his blue gaze hot and probing. “But then I’ll start singin’,” she hears her voice drop, hears the unintended sadness in her words. “I’ll start singin’ and everythin’ll be alright.”

Daryl observes her for a moment. Clears his throat. “That a dream of yours? Singin’ for an audience?”

Beth closes her eyes. It’s just for a moment, but it’s momentary respite that seems to stretch out into forever, filled with images that flicker across the back of her eyelids like film on a reel. She’s onstage, dressed in black, lips painted red. Tries to make a joke about that feedback. Everyone laughs even though it ain’t too funny. She sees Maggie grinning at her in the audience, sees Glenn’s arm wrapped around her sister’s shoulder. Sees Andrea and that dead sister Amy that Beth never met gigglin’ over somethin’ on her phone. Even sees Rick and Lori fightin’ at the bar for God’s sake.

And she sees him. _Of course_ she sees him and _of course_ he’s shrouded in a dark corner of the bar, mysterious as ever, smoke pillowing from the shadows, floatin' from an unseen cigarette. The orange glow of a streetlamp outside falls through the window, casts his features into a deep _chiaroscuro_ , and illuminates that intense blue gaze of his. He nods at her. She feels reassurance course through her body.

And she sings, loud and clear, about Daryl Dixon bein’ a pain in her ass.

“Ain’t a dream I have at night,” Beth says when her eyes flutter back open—the first thing she sees are those blue eyes, unchanging from her dream world, a constant between reality and fantasy. She swallows. “But yeah... it’s somethin’ I think about. Durin’ the day.”

Daryl pulls his thumb towards his mouth, starts chewin’ at the raw skin by his nail.

“You got any dreams?” Beth asks, fiddling with her bracelets.

“Don’t dream.”

“Well, that’s a bold-faced lie if I ever heard one.”

“There’s that sass again. Better watch that smart mouth.”

“Thought you liked my smart mouth.”

He turns towards her, his knee pressin’ hard into hers, arm draped over the back of the couch. Beth leans forward, chasin’ that delicious body odor of his—and _Jesus_ , when’d she ever like the scent of _B.O._ for cryin’ out loud? The end of the world screws with your head like that, she guesses. But _Lordy Lord_ , he smells nice, like subtle pine and sweet tobacco and tangy sweat.

Daryl grumbles, “Now when'd I say that?”

“Didn’t need to say it. I just know.”

“Best stop assumin’.”

“Whatchu gonna do about it, Mr. Dixon?”

Daryl's nostrils flair, and it’s like the air is sucked outta the room at her words.

It’s strange—it’s so hard to breathe; they're both heavin' desperately like they’re stranded on the moon. Yet, simultaneously, the humidity suffocates them, leaves them wet and sticky, and Beth feels that hot tightness spread across her chest again—feels herself get _even wetter_ goddamnit, especially when his eyes darken and flash something dangerous. Her heart’s pounding _too_ hard, her chest is _too_ tight, her pussy is _too wet_ for her to even form words, but the ball ain’t really in her court.

“Think it’s time for bed.”

Beth swallows again, buries her disappointment, and schools her expression into something adjacent to neutral. “You takin’ the coffin again?”

“Don’t judge, that shit’s comfy as fuck,” he says.

Beth holds her hands up, a joking surrender: “Ain’t judgin’.”

“Mm,” Daryl heaves himself to his feet, his hand dropping from the back of the couch and briefly squeezing her shoulder—an unconscious motion, but one that has Beth suckin’ in another big gulp of air. “You gon’ be okay in here?”

“Got my dreams to keep me company.”

“Let’s hope they’re sweet,” says Daryl, leaning over her and tugging briefly on a piece of hair that’s fallen from her ponytail.

And Beth— _goddammit_ —and Beth _moans._ It’s soft, it’s nearly imperceptible, but it’s a moan all the same. Her eyes threaten to roll into the back of her head at just a simple hair tug—but it ain't just a hair tug, and that's just it, no? 'Cause for Beth, it's got her mind racin' a million miles an hour, images flooding her mind of Daryl pulling her hair while he fucks her from behind.

Daryl releases his hold like he’s been scalded, and there's a _moment_. She nearly misses it, that moment, the nanosecond darkening of Daryl’s eyes, the _flash of lust_ in his wide pupils that dart down ever so briefly to her parted lips.

Daryl gulps.

Daryl shivers.

Daryl flees the room, tail between his legs.

And yeah, sure, Beth's embarrassed. She all but _preened_ at his touch, after all.

But there’s that fleeting moment. She’d nearly lost it in his haste to _get the fuck outta there_ , but she’d caught it all the same: _hair tug, moan_ , and _flash of lust_.

She curls her knees into her chest, tucks that knowledge away, stores it in her pocket for a rainy day.

And that night, she dreams sweetly indeed.

* * *

Daryl feels like a goddamn pervert watchin’ Beth sleep. This goddamn angel on Earth with that blonde halo of hers, that honey glow, that delicate curve of her neck. There’s somethin’ about the slope of her nose that makes him wanna reach out and draw his finger down it ever so lightly like it’s a metaphorical skate ramp or some shit.

_There’s also somethin’ about her lips that makes him want to stick that very finger between them, press down gently against that pink tongue, slide his digit in and—_

Nope. Nah.

This shit is fucking pissing him off. This dizzying oscillation between sappy and downright lustful.

Pisses him off so bad that he pushes against her shoulder, just enough to take out a little frustration and also wake her sleeping ass.

Pardon him, her _snoring_ ass—she lets out a real awful grunt and rolls over, snuggling deeper into her threadbare blanket.

Daryl pushes her again, just a little harder.

And he’s met with an even louder snore.

So he _shoves_.

“Jesus!” she hisses, rolling over from the force of his push so that her upper body dangles awkwardly off the couch in mid-air. She pulls herself up to a seated position, rubbing the sleep outta her eyes, “What time is it?”

“It’s a quarter past _wake the fuck up_ ,” snaps Daryl.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the coffin.”

“Smart ass,” Daryl quips.

_Fuck,_ she’s cute in the morning, lookin’ up at him all annoyed and grouchy, eyes still heavy from sleep. He reaches forward, unable to stop himself from wrappin’ a hand ‘round her ponytail and giving it a gentle _tug_.

The moan that falls from her lips is purely Pavlovian, and it’s got his dick jumpin’ in his jeans, same as last night—‘specially when she’s lookin’ at him like _that_ , pink lips parted just so, head tilted back, eyes all fuzzy.

Unlike last night, he hears himself grunt in response.

Like last night, he releases her _fast_ and rushes from the room like he’s got a walker on his ass.

He busies himself with sortin’ through their _redneck brunch_ when he hears her limp through the door and collapse into a rickety chair.

“How’s your ankle doin’?” he asks, turnin’ to see her stretchin’ out her leg, twisting her foot in slow, deliberate circles.

“Better,” she says. “Still a little sore.”

Daryl snatches the gauze, tosses her a plastic bottle of water, and drags a chair over to sit in front of her, unobstructed by the kitchen table. He sits, scoots in forward and taps his lap for her to set her foot down. She does so, foot on his thigh, and he jumps a little when her toes just barely graze his belt.

_Focus Daryl._

He makes quick work of her sock and unwraps the old gauze from her ankle, inspecting the fading bruise and slight swell. “Looks a little better,” says Daryl. “Think you can walk on it yet?”

Beth points her foot, and now her toes _definitely_ press firmly into his belt buckle. “What do you think?” she asks, now flexin’ it back, big toe catching on the hem of his shirt and pulling slightly.

“Mm,” Daryl mumbles, momentarily distracted. His thumb starts workin’ small circles into her ankle.

“ _Oh_ ,” Beth breaths, her eyes flutterin’ shut. She sinks down lower in her chair, forcin’ her foot forward a bit more, heel lodged into the bend between his upper thigh and pelvis.

“That feel good?” Daryl asks, now takin’ both hands and workin’ at the muscles of her lower calf.

“ _Yes_ , Daryl, oh my _Lord_ ,” Beth practically moans, opening her eyes now, and if Daryl wasn’t half hard already, he certainly is now at the sight of Beth boneless, heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide. She bites down on her lip, and Daryl moves one hand up her leg to massage her lower knee while the other moves down, pressing into her foot (he’s trying to draw more of those moans from those pretty lips).

He’s rewarded with a soft moan.

Her foot jumps slightly, pushes closer to his crotch.

Daryl’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.

And it’s when his hips nearly rock into the bottom of her foot that he catches himself—he don’t wanna start shit _with a morning footjob_ —wait, no, fuck, no.

He don’t wanna start shit _in general_.

So he clears his throat, averts his eyes, and focuses on wrappin’ her ankle up good and tight with some fresh gauze, tapping her shin lightly when it’s secure. Beth takes the hint, withdraws her leg, and he’s about to get started on breakfast when she asks—

“You ever make a bucket list?”

He almost laughs at the question, almost says _Nah, but I sure as hell need a bucket of cold water_ , but instead grunts noncommittally.

“Don’t _iunno_ ,” she pantomimes, recalling their conversation from the night before, the prelude to their little _oh_ , to their dance to the couch where they talked about dreams and poetry and shit. “Have you?”

Instead of answering, Daryl asks, “You really boutta start playin’ this game again?

Beth giggles lightly, as if she’s rememberin’ the moonshine shack and the way his voice cracked around his pain like a wounded teenager. The way he pissed something putrid in the corner, the way they lit thousands and thousands of cash on fire.

“ _No_ ,” Beth chides lightly. “I was just thinkin’ about our conversation from last night. You know, about dreams and stuff. The kind you have at night and the kind you have during the day. I feel like daydreams are bucket list items. Sometimes, at least. Sometimes they’re memories on repeat, sometimes they’re fantasies, and sometimes they’re stuff you wanna do before you…you know.”

“What? Before I die?”

Beth shrugs, gives that signature lilting hum of _iunno_.

“Shit girl. You sure like flirtin’ with morbidity.”

“Do not.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, “Sure ya do, Ms. My Dreams Are Broken Glass. _Never have I ever_ , bucket lists, flowers on graves, shackin’ up in a funeral home…”

Beth's eyebrows shoot up, “We shackin’ up now, are we?”

Daryl points a finger at her, “And don’t think I forgot your little speech ‘bout missin’ you when you gone. We ain’t doin’ that shit no more.”

“I’m not askin’ to do that shit no more!” Beth laughs, “I don’t wanna talk about what happens _after_ I die. Wanna talk about what happens _before_ I die. You can’t honestly think that _this_ is all there is.”

“ _This_ is lookin’ pretty nice right now if you ask me,” Daryl says, squinting and gesturing at her.

His words draw another sweet giggle from her, but she powers forward, “C’mon Daryl, you know what I mean. We just gonna kill walkers all our life? Eat pigs’ feet?”

“Get drunk? Burn down houses?”

“Just crossed those two off the list.” Beth announces proudly.

Daryl quirks an eyebrow at her.

She twists in her seat, turning towards the open journal that he’s just now noticin’ set upon the kitchen table. She hesitates—minutely so—before offering it to him.

Daryl leans forward and snatches the journal from her hands, scanning the page that's covered in cursive writing, sparkly stickers, and random doodles. At the top of the page she's got _BUCKET LIST_ written in block letters. 

“When you make this?”

“Back at the prison.”

“You tryna tell me that sweet Lil Asskicker’s babysitter had _arson_ on her to-do list?”

Beth flushes, but plays it off with a shrug, “Had to get creative.”

Daryl grunts, lips curled into a near-snarl, and glances down at her loopy scrawl. As he reads, Beth scoots forward, bracing her elbows on her knees to read along with him:

_~~Have sex~~ _

_~~Have an orgasm~~ _

_~~Get drunk~~ _

_Get high_

_~~Fall in love with someone~~ _

_~~Dance with someone~~ _

_Celebrate a real Christmas_

_Ride a ferris wheel_

_Watch a movie again_

_Hear beautiful music again_

_Visit the Grand Canyon_

_See the Pacific Ocean_

_Build a sandcastle_

_~~Burn down a house~~ _

_Have a friendly conversation with a stranger_

_~~Have a picnic and watch the sunset~~ _

_Shower in a waterfall_

_Find Maggie_

_Take a selfie_

_Wear lingerie_

_Go to a real Sunday Service_

_Get a tattoo_

~~_Sing for an audience_ ~~

Daryl’s hands spasm around the edges of the pages, curling them towards the spine. There’s a lot here—some of which he could probably tease her for. Lord knows the girl’s probably taken plenty of selfies back in the day and a _sandcastle?_ Seriously? There's a lotta content he can work with here to deflect like he so desperately wants to.

But all he can do is linger on those top three lines, one—and _only_ _one_ goddammit—for which he was responsible: _~~have sex~~ , ~~have an orgasm~~ , ~~get drunk~~_. They’re all struck through with three different color pens, a nauseating rainbow of black, red, and green.

_~~Have sex~~_ ~~.~~ He pictures her spread wide on a comforter, begging for his cock, asking for him to bury himself deep inside of her. Sees himself teasing her, playing with her clit—entering her slowly, stretching out her cunt.

_~~Have an orgasm~~_ ~~.~~ He sees her head thrown back, tendons in her neck _straining_ , lips open wide in a perfect O, a red flush spreading across her chest. Sees his hand reaching out to pinch her nipple—

But suddenly it ain’t his hand. It's Jimmy's or Zach’s pale and clammy hands, and—

_~~Fall in love.~~_ Daryl sees Zach givin’ Beth that final kiss on the cheek, hears himself callin’ them a damn romance novel.

_~~Get drunk~~_ ~~.~~ He sees himself yelling at her, manhandling her, pinning a walker to a tree and forcing her to use it as target practice. Sees them sittin’ on the porch, close to tears.

_~~Burn down a house~~_ ~~.~~ Sees the shack up in flames.

He starts gnawing at his thumb again. Something rolls through his stomach, something that he don’t wanna linger on, don’t wanna identify, so he flips the journal back in her direction, the pages skimming the skin of her forehead.

“Happy to have been of service,” he rasps, rising to his feet and busying himself with makin’ them both a plate of pigs’ feet and peanut butter.

“You don’t got any ideas?”

“Maybe we could find a sandbox at a playground for you to play in,” he snaps.

“What’s got you so pissy?”

“Ain’t pissy.”

Beth mutters, barely legible under her breath, “ _Yep_. Definitely woke up on the wrong side of the coffin this morning.”

There’s a momentary lull, punctuated only by the sound of Daryl clanging around obnoxiously, slapping spoonfuls of peanut butter onto their paper plates.

“You must not really be a _mourning_ person, huh Daryl?”

Takes Daryl a minute to get the joke, but he ain’t gonna give her the satisfaction of a laugh (not like he’d laugh anyway, the pun is fucking terrible).

“‘C’mon Daryl, you don’t think my skeleton puns are very _humerous_?”

That one he barely gets.

“Alright, obviously these jokes are a _grave_ mistake, huh?”

Daryl turns, tosses her plate down in front of her so harphazardly that a pig’s foot goes flyin’ off the edge of the table, clunkin’ onto the linoleum. He slumps into his chair, dragging a finger through the peanut butter and slopping it into his mouth.

“What’s your deal?”

“Givin’ up on them godawful jokes then, huh?”

“Alright, so they mighta been a little _ghastly_ , but—”

She cuts off abruptly when he finally looks up at her, lookin’ her dead in the eye with an expression that’s no doubt steely-eyed and unamused, pupils still blown wide in a way that’s decidedly chilling.

“Seriously, what’s your freaking deal?”

“My fuckin’ _deal_ Beth is—” _is that I don’t wanna think about those fucking kids putting their hands all over you, I don’t wanna think about another guy makin’ you come_ , but it’s something else too, something that gnaws deeper at his stomach, it’s, “—it’s the fact that you ain’t ever gonna be able to do any of that shit—”

“Says who? You? Alrighty then, I see you’re back to playin’ chaperone.”

Daryl’s eyes darken again, “Don’t start with me girl.”

“Yessir, Mr. Dixon, whatever you say.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?”

_Or I’ll fuck you so good you can’t form words, make you cum so hard you can’t even think straight._

Instead, a warning: “ _Girl_.”

A challenge: “Or. What.”

A concession: “Forget it.”

Daryl wipes his fingers, sticky from the peanut butter, on his jeans and shifts uncomfortably in his seat while Beth leans back, pushin’ away from the table. He feels defiant for a minute, ready to keep arguin’.

Then he sees it—she’s twistin’ her fingers ‘round and ‘round those bracelets like she always does, cuttin’ off the circulation from the end of her thumb, turning it white, before releasing the bands again and lettin’ the blood flow back in. He knows that tick—he _is_ that tick, bitin’ at the skin around his nails as a way to inflict tiny scars on himself, a tiny constellation of bleeding starts that he can watch heal. For Beth, it’s to remind herself that blood still runs through her veins, that her heart’s still beatin’.

Same as that goddamn stupid bucket list.

He sees her checkin' out, sees the distant haze in her eyes, and he wonders where she's gone off to, what dream she's hiding in.

He clears her throat, waits until her eyes are back in focus.

"Always wanted to try escargot," he says.

A grin breaks out on Beth's face and—it's worth it. Anything is worth it to see her smile like that.

"Escargot?" she giggles and wrinkles her nose and _fuck_ , that's worth it too, hearing those melodies fall from her lips, seeing that cute scrunch of her face. "You mean like... _snails_?"

"Mmmhhh. Might catch us some delicacies and fry em up real good."

"Gross!"

"Hey, it's my bucket list. Ain't like I'm gonna be playin' dress up in lingerie anytime soon."

"You don't think you'd look good in a corset?"

Daryl ignores the barb, "Nah, but I think I'd like a talking parrot."

"You want a ship to go along with that?"

"Add it to my list, girl."

Beth grins at him, flippin' open her journal, muttering under her breath as she writes, " _Try escargot... adopt a talking parrot... steal a pirate ship... find some sexy lingerie..._ "

Daryl swipes at her pen, and Beth narrowly snatches it out of his way, "I'm kiddin', I'm kiddin'."

"Mm, you best be."

"Anythin' else?"

Daryl pretends to think for a minute, even though he's already got his answer lined up: "Wanna play a classic baseball game again."

"Oh, that's a good one."

"Wanna hear Led Zeppelin."

"Oh my gosh, Daryl!" Beth looks up from his unfinished list, her lips spread wide in a toothy grin. "I can play Stairway to Heaven on the piano."

"Fuck off."

"I'm serious."

Daryl stares at her—he stares and stares and stares 'cause she's so beautiful and she's so excited and she's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold. 

"Guess we oughta cross one off the list, then."

"Gotta start somewhere."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first Bethyl fic! I've been obsessed with these tragic idiots for six years now, and I'm only just now getting around to writing them?? Seriously I remember reading FanFiction about them in high school, and I'm a whole ass adult now with health care and a mortgage and a career. Time's a bitch, but better late than never, no?
> 
> I have about eight chapters planned for this, with three written so far.
> 
> I can't wait to take these two to the apocalypse's version of Disneyland—bongs, lingerie, sandcastles, movies, and all.
> 
> Please let me know if there are any glaring grammatical or stylistic errors! Also tell me if you hate it. Or if you love it. Or if it's trash. If it's a masterpiece. If you wanna burn your eyes out having read it. If you can't wait to read more. We love honesty just as much as we love extremes here 🌚
> 
> But seriously, I did enjoy writing this, and I love hearing honest feedback! I’m also looking for a beta, so let me know if you’re down to edit/revise/proofread this shit


	2. and the forests echo with laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beth and Daryl hear the call of a siren; Beth and Daryl climb a stairway to heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, I get a bit prosaic near the end here.

__

_Don't turn around  
Feel it nipping at the backs of your heels  
Feel it calling like a northern wind, whispering  
'Who you are isn't what you've been  
Don't turn around  
Feel it nipping at the backs of your heels  
Feel it calling like a northern wind, whispering  
'Who you are isn't what you've been_

– _Northern Wind, Liza Anne_

* * *

There’s something about the stillness of post-apocalyptic mornings.

It’s the hazy fog that rolls over meadows, the kind that settles in between the tombstones like a thick blanket. It’s the slow turn of the earth, the gentle crest of the sun that peaks through treetops. It’s the silence too—there may be the deadly calls of crows pickin’ apart carcasses, but somethin’ about their song creeps along Beth’s skin and hits her ears and gives her a _déjà vu_ that feels so similar to the eternity between the _tick tock_ of a second hand on a clock. Like these screechin’ birds halt time altogether.

She stares out over the pale yellows and pinks of the mornin’ sky and feels entirely displaced in time, displaced in reality, as she watches Daryl Dixon drag a dead deer through the graveyard, tracking blood over the frosty dew. A tune comes to mind—

“ _C Major key and 120 metronome_ ,” Beth whispers, hurrying over to the piano and settling in at the bench. Her hands hover over the keys, shaking slightly, as she closes her eyes and tries to remember the swell of the music from her favorite movie from way back when she was in middle school—another lifetime.

‘Cause watchin’ Daryl huffin’ and puffin’ and heavin’ that dead deer was one thing, but watchin’ him do it at the very break of dawn, his hair dark and obscuring his face, shirt unbuttoned down past his sternum—that sight has Beth thinking about—

“ _One, two, three, four,_ ” whispers Beth before his fingers begin flying over the keys, and she whisks herself away to a fantasy world of romance and longing—but moreover, a fantasy world of _society_ where there was war but there was also _peace_ , where women could lounge on beautiful estates in white dresses with lemonade and lustfully watch the farmhands shovel hay and meet them in the stairwell in the dead of night, hot wax dripping from a candelabra (because the more dramatic, the better), and the rough, older farmhand would take her up against the wall behind the tapestry and—

Beth’s hands skitter across the keys when she hears Daryl bang the door open.

She turns, cheeks flushed, and meets his gaze.

“Didn’ mean to startle ya,” he says.

“It’s fine,” says Beth, shifting around on the bench to face him fully, notin’ the awkward shuffle of his feet and the gentle gnaw of his teeth at his thumb. “Everythin’ okay?”

He mumbles somethin’ Beth don’t quite catch, and she tells him so.

He shifts again, runs a hand through his hair, “Said my ma liked that movie a lot.”

And _oh_.

He recognized it. He recognized the swell, the cadence, the unfolding melody of _Pride and Prejudice_ , the romantic quiver of the piano keys. His ma’s favorite movie.

Beth can see it. A gorgeous woman with the same sharp cheekbones and blue eyes as Daryl, sittin’ in an empty, rundown trailer with a lit cigarette hanging from her mouth. A bruised eye, fingerprints ‘round her neck, tears streamin’ down her cheeks as Mr. Darcy professed his undying love for Elizabeth Bennett. A little Daryl peekin’ out from behind a doorframe, watching his ma dream about love.

‘Cept Daryl wouldna been too little when that movie came out—probably old enough to leave home by then, and Beth wonders how much Mrs. Dixon must’ve like the classic Austen tale for the music to make such an impression on him. ‘Cause the man’s about damn _shaking_ in his boots, more than when she played him Led Zeppelin last night—but of course, then he had looked at her then like she was a goddamn _siren_ , and now he’s starin’ at her like she’s a ghost.

Beth ain’t too sure what to say, but the words fall from her mouth before she can stop them: “She must’ve had good taste.”

Daryl scoffs, his meaning clear: Mrs. Dixon had shit taste (and his existence and his scars are evidence). If Beth could, she’d spoon those words right back into her mouth and force them down her throat.

Instead, she bites her lips and hopes Daryl can hear her telepathic apology.

And thankfully, he don’t linger on her words, just cocks his head and tells her he needs help skinnin’ the deer.

Beth follows him out onto the porch, and while he’s ripping the skin clean from her muscle, she can’t quite shake an image from her head—that is, Daryl’s ma’s lipstick bright and pink around a cigarette filter, the smoke obscuring the screen as Matthew McFayden professes his undying love for Kiera Knightley.

***

“We gotta go, Beth.”

She’s hunched over her journal later that night, deep into some macabre poem about rednecks and regency when Daryl tells her this. Her hand twitches and she’s met with yet another wave of _déjà vu_ ‘cause she swears, left hand to God, those are the same words that Daryl growled at her when they ran from the prison. Today feels the same way a Sunday does, kinda suspended outside of time and trapped in it all the same, like a fly caught in amber.

Beth collects herself and looks up at Daryl whose got his back pressed against the wall near the window. Moonlight streams in from outside, casts blue light upon his already chilly gaze, and she shivers.

“Go where? Why?”

The toothpick Daryl’s got stuck in between his teeth trembles as he says, “Gotta keep movin’. Walkers are gettin’ more and more frequent out there.”

Beth nods—she knows, she’s seen the slowly thickening herds wandering through the graveyards like poor imitations of ghosts risen from the graves.

“‘Sides,” Daryl says, hauling to his feet and adjusting the curtain so that the sliver of moonlight is now caught in the fabric. “We gotta start workin’ on that bucket list, hm? How we gonna find Maggie if we trapped up in here?”

Beth smiles, but it must not quite reach her eyes, ‘cause Daryl plops his ass down on the couch, and says, “Can’t see the Specific Ocean if we don’t move our asses.”

Beth’s eyebrows jump towards her hairline, “I’m sorry, the _what?_ ”

“The Specific Ocean,” Daryl says, his lips curving a bit as if he knows _exactly_ what he’s doin’.

Beth can’t help but rise to the bait: “You mean the _Pacific_ Ocean.”

“Nah,” Daryl shakes his head. “You ain’t ever hear of the Specific Ocean?”

Beth giggles.

“The Specific Ocean’s a whole damn prettier than the _Pacifier_ Ocean. It’s got water so clear you can see straight down to the ocean floor. See them coral reefs and rainbow seaweed and shit.”

“Sounds real nice,” says Beth.

“It’s got palm trees and co-co-nuts.”

“Mm,” Beth closes her eyes, indulges in the escapism. “You’re painting a real pretty picture.”

“...and pretty ladies loungin’ around with they tops off.”

Beth’s eyes shoot open and her jaw drops. Daryl’s draped across the couch, arm slung over the back, starin’ at her through those slitted eyes, tongue pressing against the back of his teeth.

Beth flushes (pictures herself stripping off her own top just to feel somewhat closer to Daryl’s Specific Ocean, just to feel his eyes caress her breasts). Instead, she forces out a scoff and rolls her eyes, collapsing back against the pillow with the blanket drawn into her chin to hide her blush, “Almost sounds too good to be true.”

It’s silent for a moment. Beth misses his voice.

“You’re not gonna finish my bedtime story?”

”Want me to tuck you into bed too?”

“Maybe,” Beth squirms underneath the blanket 

Daryl shakes his head at her, chews his thumb for a minute. Then he’s relaxing into the cushions, staring off into the distance as he régals her his fantasy world: “The sand ain’t white neither, it’s this light pink color and when the sun sets, it looks like the whole beach is on fire.”

“I sure like fire.”

Daryl grunts out something close to laugh, "I know you do, ya fuckin' pyromaniac..."

Beth settles deeper into the cushions, pulling her blanket around her and stretching out her legs so that her toes dig under Daryl’s thigh, seeking out the warmth of his body. She yawns, settles her head back against a pillow and says, “Go on. This is makin’ for a nice bedtime story.”

Daryl traces his eyes over her, and she sees his face soften when they make eye contact. It ain’t heated like their glances have been lately—ain’t laden with things left unsaid. Nah, this one’s light, it’s intimate, it’s like a whisper of fingertips along her spine, the kind that makes her flutter her eyes closed, breaking that eye contact, eyelashes dusting upon the tops of her cheekbones.

“The waves are so big they put California to shame. Bigger than the buildings in Atlanta…”

It’s his voice weaving her a bedtime story that finally lulls her to sleep.

***

They pick out a single item from their respective lists. Ain’t too hard. With their packs hoisted high onto their backs and loaded up well and good with their weapons, they sit on the porch and look out over that misty, deadly landscape that surrounds the funeral home for one last time.

“I know one you can cross off,” Daryl says around a mouthful of apple.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhh,” he’d says. “ _Hear beautiful music again_.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh,” his teeth snap around the apple again, and he takes his time chewing before speakin. “Heard it fine and plenty this morning Mrs. Darcy.”

Beth’s heart skips a beat—for a second there, she thought he was gonna say _Mrs. Dixon_ and unravel the already frayed boundary between them. Nonetheless, his words make her blush and shake her head adamantly, “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Whatchu mean then, ‘cause that Led Zeppelin shit sure was beautiful too.”

“I _mean_ I wanna hear something by, like, a real artist.”

Daryl cocks his head at her, tongue flicking out to chase some of the apple juices that dribble down his chin, “You ain’t a real artist?”

Beth ducks her head a little, blush spreading further, “Listen, I’m just trying to hear some Johnny Cash again.”

Daryl smacks his lips, tosses the apple core off some ways, licks his fingers, and says, “Alrighty then, Mrs. Darcy. Let’s get looking. I’m sure we can scout out a Walkman or something.”

“A Walkman?” Beth asks, brows scrunching up. “Like a singin’ walker?”

“Smartass,” quips Daryl, but then he notes Beth’s sustained confusion and pauses. “You really dunno what a Walkman is?”

“Uh…”

“Makin’ me feel old, girl.” Daryl rubs at his jaw as he hefts himself to his feet, sauntering over to his crossbow and throwin’ it over his shoulder.

Beth’s mind scrambles, but Daryl don’t give her a minute to respond, already moving towards the tree lines, shoulders tense.

***

_TERMINUS._

_SANCTUARY FOR ALL._

_COMMUNITY FOR ALL._

_THOSE WHO ARRIVE_

_SURVIVE._

The neat block text stands proud against the wooden slab, seemingly invitational, but there’s something about the way the sign sits at a fork in the railroad that sends a shiver down Beth’s spine—probably something to do with the corpse sat up against the post, rotted and slumped over in a permanent slumber, more skeleton than flesh.

She takes it for what it is: an Omen.

“Whatchu think?” growls Daryl.

“I think someone thinks themselves an awfully good Shakespeare,” says Beth, hitching her pack higher over her shoulder. She spits out with a bite of sarcasm: “ _Those who arrive, survive._ ”

Daryl snorts, taps an arrow against the last word. “Ain’t no one gettin' outta this life alive. They shouldn’t be makin’ promises they can’t keep.”

Beth stares at the fork in the railroad, and for yet the second time today, the cultural remnants of her past fog her mind. She recites the quote from memory: “‘Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it.’”

“There’s only room for _one_ Shakespeare ‘round these parts, huh?” Daryl barbs, poking her in the side with a fake finger gun.

Beth jumps and giggles. “Ain’t Shakespeare. It’s Tolkien.”

“Who the…?”

“You know, Lord of the Rings.”

Daryl stares at her, face blank.

“Shawn loved those movies. He was _such_ a geek,” Beth rolls her eyes, a smile crowning her face in spite of herself. “Had posters strung up on his walls. Always talkin’ my ear off about Jedi and lightsabers and elves and Gollum. Maggie used to make so much fun of him.”

Daryl grunts. A few seconds pass, and she thinks his mind has wandered off before he says, “Merle liked that shit too. Would always look at his meth like a fuckin’ _creep_ and say ‘ _my precious_ ’ in this weird voice before getting high outta his mind.”

Beth’s face splits into a grin and she laughs, her shoulders shaking, “He did not.”

“Mmmhh,” Daryl’s lips are quirked back up at her in response. “Did too.”

Beth shakes her head, her smile still lingering as she turns backs and refocuses her attention on the sign. “You trust it?”

“You’re in charge. Whaddya say, Shakespeare?”

Beth hesitates, shifts her weight on her feet. She thinks of Maggie. What she would do, if she would follow. Beth knows that Maggie would do anything to find her, just as Beth would travel to the ends of the Earth to find Maggie again. And call it a fool's instinct, but something in Beth’s bones is tellin’ her that Maggie’s still alive somehow; call it a jester’s gamble, too, but Beth’s gonna trust what the bones are telling her, whether they’re her own or the ones that have been left underneath that sign, bite marks embedded into the limbs where scavengers have picked over the remains.

She glances up at Daryl, who’s observing her carefully underneath that oily fringe of his.

“No,” she says, voice clear and confident.

“Why not?” asks Daryl, point his chin up at her. He’s challenging her, yeah, but he ain’t disagreeing—it’s more of a test. _Signs are all there, just gotta know how to read them_. He’s teaching her how to lead, how to defend the decisions she makes and stick to ‘em.

Beth raises her eyebrows, “I ain’t never heard of no safe haven that names itself _Terminus_. Sounds like _terminate._ Only took one year of Latin, but Mrs. Delaney was a good teacher: _end, limit, boundary_. Gandalf’s path to the final point in space or time.”

“You really citin’ your _Latin_ class right now?”

“Am I wrong?” Beth shoots back. “‘Sides, what kinda place advertises themselves? Make themselves vulnerable like that?”

“There’s still good people, right?”

“Well, sure, but there’s still _bad_ people too.”

“Ain’t gonna argue with you there.”

“And I’m gonna trust the Universe on this one,” Beth nods to the skeleton, with the teeth marks and worms stickin’ out through the ribs. “I know an omen when I see one.”

“What about Maggie?”

“Maggie’s smarter than some poorly executed propaganda,” says Beth.

Daryl whistles, low under his breath, “You sure y’never went to college?”

“You agree with me or not?”

He takes a moment, looks between her and the sign, eyes tracking back and forth like his gonna read something in her steady gaze or in those weirdly neat letters. Then they drop, take in the skeleton, narrow in on those bite marks. “I’m with ya, Shakespeare. Shit don’t feel right.”

Beth nods, pulls her pack so that it dangles in front of her chest. She unzips it and pulls out her journal, ripping a page from the seams. She can feel Daryl’s eyes heavy on her as she bends to snatch a nail from the ground, using it to tack the piece of paper onto the board.

Beth clicks her pen, leans forward to scratch into the paper:

_MAGGIE—_

_DON’T GO TO TERMINUS._

_TAKE THE LEFT FORK._

_PROVERBS 27:12._

_LOVE,_

_BETH AND DARYL_

***

Dusk settles over them the same way snow does: quiet and pretty.

Daryl knows summer’s drawin’ to a close when the cicadas ain’t screamin’ as loud, when the sun draws closer to the horizon faster than before, and when the sunset cools from blazing oranges and reds into cooler purples and yellows. He sees the exhaustion in Beth’s gait and can feel it in his own feet too—they been walking all day since they left the funeral home, practically wearing their shoes into dust. They’d departed not too far from the tracks a while back, keeping it parallel to their right shoulder but hopin’ to come across shelter soon.

And shelter they fucking find.

The trees start to become sparser and sparser, shifting into rolling fields. Daryl catches sight of an old cell tower in the distance, electrical lines cutting dark and black against the darkening sky. The moon glints against the rusty metal—and then another flash catches Daryl’s eye.

It’s closer than the cell tower and on the other side of the field where the sky grows darker still, nestled between two sweeping magnolias: a wrought iron gate. He nudges Beth, nods to it. She redirects their walking slightly, heading towards it, probably thinking the same as him: a gate might mean keep out, but it also means shelter. She’s got her knife raised to eye level, other hand grasping a gun at her side. He leads her, crossbow pointed forward.

As they draw nearer, it comes into sharper relief, the rusted iron gleaming proud against the moon that now sits high in the sky. The tops of the bars twist into elegant, carved flowers, guarding an old path that’s swallowed by those hanging magnolia’s, disappearing like a cave’s mouth deep into the forest.

_There’s a feeling I get when I look to the west_

_And my spirit is crying for leaving_

_In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees_

_And the voices of those who stand looking_

_That’s you_

A shiver runs down Daryl’s spine—but it ain’t one that’s screamin’ at him to run the other way, not like the way he felt when he saw the Terminus sign. There’s something about the forest abyss that calls him forward, draws him closer—it’s like a siren, akin to Beth singing, and all he can see is flashes of her deep in the forest, glowing with a halo ‘round her head, lips weaving beautiful music, her light casting ghostly melodies. The song’s been stuck in Daryl’s head all day, and as he stares down that mysterious path, her siren’s call only grows louder. Beth’s doppelganger haunts those shadows, calling to him:

_And it’s whispered that soon, if we all call the tune_

_Then the piper will lead us to reason_

_And a new day will dawn for those who stand long_

_And the forests will echo with laughter_

_Remember laughter?_

Beth is the one to push open the gate, the metal creaking as they push through it. He chances a glance her way, and yeah—she’s just as curious, just as enchanted as he is. The branches swallow them whole, pull them deeper into the belly. Daryl sees now that a fence lines the pathway, made of stone and iron, carved into figures and shapes that seemingly belong to a different world—ruins of beauty, corpses of art.

_And it makes me wonder_

_If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow, don’t be alarmed now_

_It’s just a spring clean for the My queen_

_Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run_

_There’s still time to change the road you’re on_

A fountain, now. It’s outta use, but it must’ve once been beautiful. Daryl can tell. The water has a brown film on top of it, covered in leaves and mold and—the croaking of a toad, too, he thinks, just barely heard in the night—croaks that sound like underscores, like harmonies to the song that’s shaking his bones. They creep around that fountain, keeping it close, marching in a 180-degree circle, until they reach the other side. They reach another gate, this one about twice the size of the last, and Daryl listens closely for any signs of life, but all he can hear is the swell of the song and the sounds of nature echoing, echoing, echoing:

_Your head is humming and it won’t go, in case you don’t know_

_The piper’s calling you to join him_

_Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow, and did you know_

_Your stairway lies on the whispering wind?_

Beth gasps gently next to him once they land on the other side of the gate—locked, so they climbed over using the vines—and Daryl’s pretty sure he sounds and looks just like her, completely stunned by the sight before him. He ain’t never seen a McMansion like this, looming over him, dressed in a sienna stucco with pillars and verandas and balconies and— _Jesus Christ, is that a fucking Porsche?_ His skin jumps when he thinks he spots someone, but nah—it’s just a statue, one that forces a lump into his throat, ‘cause it bears the likeness of an angel, with wings that loom larger than her body, a halo placed precariously atop her head and he swears, _he swears_ , that this was the siren that wandered those woods, the siren that called out his name.

_And as we wind on down the road_

_Our shadows taller than our soul_

_There walks a lady we all know_

_Who shines white light and wants to show_

_How everything turns to gold_

They’re climbing again, using more vines that crawl up the side on the house like veins. Beth leads the way here, Daryl following her, staring at the way her lithe form practically _slithers_ up the wall, those long, graceful legs of hers stretchin’ out to heave herself onto the second-floor balcony that wraps around the house. Once they both got their feet on the ground, Daryl wants to burst into tears—cause Beth, fucking _Beth_ , she looks so beautiful, bathed in the moonlight, grinning at him with that breathless smile. She walks ‘round the balcony, circles the house to move to the front, and there’s that gasp again as she stops on the side. Daryl follows her gaze and _fuck_ , it’s like he’s looking at a fucking _ocean_.

_And if you listen very hard_

_The tune will come to you at last_

_When all is one and one is all, that’s what it is_

_To be a rock and not to roll_

Solar panels. Thousands of them. Shimmering under the moonlight, casting streaks of diamonds, looking like waves in an ocean. They bend and break across the field, some with foliage twisting and turning over their faces like seaweed. Daryl collapses, feels the pebbles cut deep into his ass, and for a moment he convinces himself that he’s at that beach with Beth, staring out over the Specific Ocean. He can hear her talking softly, hear the delight in her voice, and he knows, he _knows_ deep in his soul that they’re safe here. He’ll make sure, he’ll scout the house in the morning, he’ll kill every last walker within a mile’s radius if he has to. Kill the owner of the house, chop off their head and mount it on that statue if it’s necessary. He’ll make sure they’re safe. He’ll make sure Beth’s safe. ‘Cause somethin’ called them here, somethin’ demanded their stay. Call it a fool's instinct, call it a jester’s gamble.

But for now, he wraps an arm around Beth and lets himself take in the sight—take in the sweeping waves and glittering jewels and burning moonlight.

_And she’s buying a stairway to heaven_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't lie to y'all, I fucking terrified myself writing that last part. Literally scared the shit outta myself. It's like 2 am here lmao. Don't know if it's gonna be scary to you guys, but for me I was like...yo am I ok. I ended up throwing on an episode of The Office in the background to comfort my bitch ass 😂
> 
> Anyway. This was a bridge chapter and to set things up for later on. I promise there's gonna be sexy times and bucket list shenanigans going on soon. 
> 
> That image at the beginning of the fic is actually my own original work. If you want to follow some of my original poetry and work, you can check it out here: @lilith_in_eden . A shameless plug. You'll see a lot of horror and romance and macabre and erotica elements. (Shocker, I know /s). 
> 
> Let me know how you liked it and your predictions for what happens next ✨


	3. my blue lips are painted red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beth and Daryl explore the house.
> 
> TW: blood, gore, suicide.

_She may contain the urge to run away_

_She bruises, coughs, she splutters pistol shots  
Hold her down with soggy clothes and breezeblocks  
She’s morphine, queen of my vaccine  
My love, my love, love, love _

_  
Please don't go, I love you so, my lovely_

_Please don’t go, I’ll eat you whole  
I love you so, I love you so, I love you so  
Please don’t go, I’ll eat you whole_

* * *

Sure enough, the place is clean as can be.

Not clean like the funeral home. That place had not a speck of dust in it, with organized cupboards and tidy bathrooms and wiped down windows. It had a real sense of normalcy to it, like a real home with a real owner who does a real good job takin’ care of it.

~~This place…~~

This _mansion_ …

As they creep inside, the first thing Daryl sees is a chandelier that’s now merged with spider webs, and he’s reminded of that time Merle dragged his stoned ass to a haunted house ‘round Halloween time. There’d been people dressed as clowns laughing like Merle did when he was high on meth, taunting them with red painted smiles and wide, black eyes. It was the only time Daryl had seen Merle scared shitless—even now in the _after,_ Daryl had never seen Merle so much as blink an eye at a walker—but then, in the _before_ , he’s pretty sure Merle confronted his own mortality that day.

Daryl drags boot prints through the thick layering of dust on the hardwood floors, bow pointed and at the ready for anything that might sneak up on them. He can hear Beth creep in behind him before she overtakes him by heading to the four-poster bed.

Her knuckles are white around the hilt of her Bowie knife, but her grip slackens when the scene comes into sharp focus:

~~A woman.~~

A corpse.

Tucked underneath the covers.

A knife plunged between her eyebrows.

A locket clutched between her decaying fingers.

Black matter spilling from her eye sockets.

Dried blood turns the once-white silk sheets a dark sanguine.

Daryl watches as Beth’s skinny wrists pull out the dagger from the woman’s skull. She wipes the dried blood on a sheet, then pulls the comforter up over the remainder of the dead woman’s body.

“What’re you doin’?” asks Daryl, even though he has an inkling.

“Respectin’ the dead,” Beth says, tucking the dagger away in her belt.

Daryl grunts, and turns away, but not before he sees the letters painted in blood on the headboard:

_LILAH FERNWOOD._

_LILAH MORTIMER._

_LILAH BELLUCI._

The three names are scrawled over and over again, dozens of times, some crossed out, and some trailing off again down towards the bed, indentations in the wall where it seems nails were dragged through the wallpaper.

“This is a tomb,” says Beth softly, her bottom lip quivering.

“Wanna leave?”

“This room, yeah. It’s hers; she should rest.”

“There you go again,” Daryl grumbles, moving on towards the set of double doors, “flirtin’ with morbidity.”

***

Beth ain’t never been to Disneyland. Right before everything went to shit, they had a trip planned. Her daddy had bought four tickets down to Orlando, wrapped them up in some real pretty paper and gave em to her on her birthday for her, Jimmy, himself, and her momma. She’d been so excited—dreamed of eating cotton candy, of kissing Jimmy in front of the castle.

Two weeks later, a dead man came walking onto their land.

This mansion that she and Daryl have stumbled upon is about the closest thing she’ll ever get to Disneyland.

She counts six bedrooms, all splitting off from the second story corridor (not _hallway_ , it’s too fancy to be called that), all adorned with expensive looking art and fancy bedspreads and Neo-Baroque furniture.

A shattered chandelier lies at the center of the _corridor_ , blocking off the Eastern wing, so she and Daryl pick their way through crystal to glide down the sweeping marble staircases that lead to the biggest damn foyer she ever did see.

A beautiful abstract painting sits below the staircase—probably the first thing visitors would see upon entering, and she ignores Daryl’s scoff to stare at it and marvel in its beauty. It was probably worth millions of dollars at one point, but now it’s only worth the minutes of perception Beth is giving it ‘cause for the first time she sees red and she ain’t thinking about blood and death.

“Fuckin’ dumb.”

“It ain’t dumb,” says Beth. “It’s beautiful.”

Beth is reminded of the funeral home, the corpse on the table—this is an echo of a previously had conversation, but if she needs to keep reminding him what beauty is, then she don’t mind one bit.

"Looks like a whole lotta nothin’ to me.”

Beth points: “Here. That looks like when you wake up to the smell of someone you love makin’ you breakfast—like that feeling, you know?”

“The fuck—”

“And there. That’s what the steady rise of the sun feels like.”

“We just watched the sunrise, ain’t look like that at all.”

“And that one,” Beth grins and shrill giggle bubbles outta her, “that’s what an orgasm feels like.”

She chances a look over her shoulder to see Daryl stunned silent, a flush burning across his cheeks. He’s considering the painting now, thumb tucked between those lips before he cuts his eyes away, down to those marble floors, and slugs his crossbow over his shoulder again. He’s moving towards what she can only assume to be the living room as he murmurs, “Must be some weak-ass orgasm then.”

It’s Beth’s turn to blush now as she wanders after him, images flooding her mind of Daryl show her what a strong orgasm must be in his estimation, when a gasp escapes her lips that has nothing to do with sex.

See, while the rest of the house looked like it was tryna mimic what nice houses are _supposed_ to look like, this one looks like it was straight cut and pasted from the 1970s. There’s a shag rug, a sitting pit complete with couches wrapped in pink velvet, a zebra head fixed to the wall, a record player, and a giant fluffy blanket.

And Beth bein’ Beth, she makes a beeline straight for the record player. She starts flipping through the old albums, teeming with excitement with each title that comes her way. She’s practically shaking as she calls out each artist to Daryl: “Leon Bridges, Elvis Presley, James Brown, Earth Wind & Fire, Marvin Gaye, _oh my god Daryl they got Amy Winehouse_ ,” she turns to him with a grin so wide and so bright. “I _love_ Amy Winehouse.”

Daryl’s still standing in the archway, arms crossed across his chest and teeth nibbling at his lip. He shrugs without responding and that’s when she sees it: the stiff set of his shoulders, the twitching jaw, the knuckles popping between his fingers.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, flopping from her knees onto the ground so she can look at him more fully, one arm supportin’ her weight.

He shakes his head once: _nothin’._

She rolls her eyes, ‘cause he’s obviously full of _crap_ , but she don’t wanna push him too far and _golly gee_ they got Amy Winehouse—the fact of the matter swells up so much that it’s taking up all the space in her mind. That giggle rolls back on up, and she turns back to naming all the people: “Nina Simone, _The Beatles_ … Stevie Wonder, more Beatles…”

***

Daryl is annoyed.

It bubbles up through his stomach, and his mouth tastes like pennies as he bites back a snarl at Beth.

‘Cause he’s annoyed dammit.

He’s annoyed at her fucking childlike wonder as they crept through the mansion’s tombs, annoyed at the way she marveled at the paintings, at the way she squealed over the records, at the way she continues to flip through the titles with glee, ignoring him completely.

He leaves her there, in the living room, as she chatters on to herself about the genius of Audioslave, turning his attention to the rest of the home. He has his crossbow ready to fire as he enters in some fancy shmancy dining room with fancy shmancy statues. There’s broken china all over the ground—pieces that glint with gold and silver and he’s reminded of when they were at the country club and he couldn’t help but shove cash and jewelry in his bag like a kid in a candy store. That same impulse overtakes him now, and his fingers twitch against the trigger. He overrides the instinct, thinks of Beth’s giggles echoing throughout the house, and refocuses his attention on securing the grounds.

The rest of the place is more of the same. A kitchen with granite countertops. A pantry stocked to the brim with cans and ramen noodles and all types of food. A basement complete with a wine cellar—he makes a note to inform Beth of _that_ particular find. There’s also a home theater down there, with DVDs stacked high against the back wall.

Back upstairs, there’s a chain of rooms dedicated to different kinds of entertainment—he moves past Beth who’s now marveling at a grand piano that’s in the 70s room. The room across the way houses a pool table and small row of arcade games, with neon signs dead and dusty hung up on the walls. And there’s that name again, in once was probably a pretty pink shade of neon, wound in cursive across the wall:

_LILAH MORTIMER._

Girl musta had a pretty ego on her.

He wanders back out into the hallway and finally understands Beth’s sheer wonder at the fucking ~~beautiful~~ _insanity_ of this place.

This new room is much like the 70s room. There’s a bar and another drop-in sitting area that’s littered with empty bottles of wine. While the 70s room looked like it had been preserved in time, this one had echoes of the death that now characterized their world: a corpse lying across the couch, teeth yellow and moldy, with a rolled up dollar bill flickering in between its decaying fingers. Daryl notes the sweep of white powder across the table—combined with the copious amounts of alcohol, it was surely an overdose.

He thinks of Beth tucking in Miss Lilah Mortimer upstairs and finds himself doin’ the same, pulling a moth-eaten blanket atop this new skeleton.

And then, more outta a long-forgotten habit than anything else, he wets his finger and dips it into the cocaine. The substance is grainy against his teeth and gums, but the pop of adrenaline is worth it as the bitter taste dissolves in his mouth.

Beth’s laugh echoes from the other room as she starts to play the piano, and the first few notes of some Led Zeppelin tune he can’t place float through the air. He hears her humming along with it and turns to what truly captivated him about this room in the first place: a glass wall spans the entirety of the Eastern wall, but instead of the outside forest that they trekked through to get here, plants of all shapes sizes and types press up against the glass, vines crawl across the surface, and a gorgeous explosion of green dominates his field of vision. The glass peers into what looks to be a greenhouse the length of a fucking football field. With no one to tend to the flora, the plants have seemingly gotten out of control, and Daryl finds himself staring at what looks like a jungle.

The music seemingly pushes him forward again, and he enters the greenhouse through an adjacent doorway. The jungle eats him whole as his pupils start to thrum from the small hit of cocaine.

His boots crunch some glass underfoot; a quick glance up shows how vines from outside trees have crushed through the glass ceiling, how some trees from inside the greenhouse have jumped out entirely, wrapping the entire thing in stemmy bows. He identifies the plants as he walks—some he hasn’t seen since Before the Shitshow, and it brings him an odd amount of comfort in the same way he’s sure Beth’s new record collection gave her. He loses himself in the way these plants twine together, forging new growths and weaving through like vices.

But nothing prepares him for what lies in the center.

Another corpse.

Not a walker.

But a _fresh_ corpse.

Must’ve been but a week old.

Blond hair.

Flowers placed along the strands.

Blue lips.

Once painted red.

Wrapped around a gun.

Stains bloodying a white nightgown.

Something in his mind flashes and all he can see is Beth and his body moves without him telling it to and he’s collapsing to his knees and he ain’t sobbing, not quite, but he’s stabbing the woman repeatedly in the head over and over and over again even though she’s gone, _she’s gone_ , but he’s outta his mind, he can’t breathe––

Daryl falls back onto his ass, hyperventilating, a mirror image to when he killed his brother’s walking corpse.

He shakes his head, tells himself it’s just the cocaine, it’s just a reaction, to _chill the fuck out._

He drags himself back to the mansion—feeling quite like a walker himself, really—and spots Beth’s grinning face over the edge of the piano.

She’s smiling.

She’s alive.

And goddammit, he’ll die makin’ sure she’s okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the unexpected hiatus! Current events are having an negative impact on my mental health, and I'll be graduating soon, so things got a little hectic over here.
> 
> Every chapter that I write is the equivalent to one scene length on actual TV. So I'm predicting the events in this chapter will be congruent to one episode of TWD. Trying to get the pacing right, but I apologize if this seems a little short or uneventful. Blame Gimple for that.
> 
> I'm also sorry if my description of the greenhouse wasn't stellar. I was running out of fuel and in a hurry to get y'all this chapter. I might go back and flesh it out a bit, but I admittedly got lazy :)
> 
> I promise more ~romantic~ interaction next. Just setting the stage (literally) for the events to follow :) Expect an update *soon.* I will also be working on getting y'all a Bethyl Modern AU. I'm giving myself a real hard time with this one, trying to figure out the tone, which will hopefully be lighter than this (maybe? possibly? idk if I can write ~light.)
> 
> pst - pls rec me ur fav modern au that’s on here


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